


The Locked Room Affair

by Ingu



Series: The Man From Tumblr [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Bickering, Boys Kissing, Insults, M/M, Prompt Fill, Scheming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 05:43:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4817267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingu/pseuds/Ingu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why are you being like this? We do not need to be in here.”</p><p>“Probably not,” says Napoleon. “But like Gaby said, we’re in time out. Which means we both need to cool down before we can leave.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Locked Room Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for prompt by [schizoress](http://ingu.tumblr.com/post/129254332108/for-the-drabble-prompts-maybe-gaby-puts-the-boys): "gaby puts the boys in timeout"

Ten minutes in and Illya is still pacing. There is something to be said about Russian perseverance, Napoleon thinks. He’s dizzy just from watching.

“You can pick the lock,” Illya says, pausing and turning to Napoleon in one precise motion.

“I can.” Napoleon agrees, wary, uncooperative.

Illya steps aside, and gestures with both hands at the door. Napoleon glances at it, and then his gaze turns back to Illya.

Illya watches him, and then his lips press together in anger. There is betrayal written on his face. Napoleon keeps his expression one of practiced detachment.

“Then give me your tools.” Illya thrusts out a hand.

Napoleon recoils, staring at Illya, affronted. “No.”

“Why are you being like this? We do not need to be in here.”

“Probably not,” says Napoleon. “But like Gaby said, we’re in time out. Which means we _both_ need to cool down before we can leave.”

“Locking me in a room is not helping me to calm down.”

“Give it more time,” Napoleon says with a casual air, “You’ll be surprised what being locked in a small space for a long time can do for you.”

“I know what it does. I don't like it.”

That’s new. Napoleon pauses for a moment. “You’ve spent time being locked in enclosed spaces?”

Illya looks at him then, alarm flashing behind his eyes. He’s said too much, and now he knows it. Napoleon just smiles politely, exuding an aura of harmlessness. It's not as though he is suggesting anything untoward about the KGB, despite their harsh reputation.

Illya gives no reply. He goes back to pacing, and Napoleon’s eyes follow him. Soon, Napoleon starts to feel dizzy again.

“You know, since we’re locked in here, we may as well get to know each other.” Napoleon aims for friendliness, hoping to at least get points for trying.

“No.” Now Illya is the one being uncooperative. “I am not doing this.”

“Alright,” Napoleon says, and leans comfortably against the wall. “I’ll be here, if you change your mind.”

Illya stops pacing, and settles against another wall with his arms and ankles crossed, the world’s grumpiest spy. They make it through another two minutes of silence when Illya starts eying him again.

“Is there something you want to say, or are you just looking?” Napoleon says when it starts to feel like Illya is burning holes through his suit.

Illya head turns away, and Napoleon suppresses the urge to sigh.

“Where did you buy your suit?” The Russian speaks.

Napoleon’s eyebrows rise. Of all the things he had expected to come out of Illya’s mouth, this had not been it.

“Sartoria Domenico Caraceni.” Italy’s most prominent bespoke tailor.

“I doubt it. It’s hideous,” Illya mutters.

Now he’s just being hurtful for it’s own sake. “I would not lie about my tailoring, and this is a classic design,” Napoleon says. Dark navy, hand-sewn, fully canvassed, custom made to his exact specifications, this suit is one of his favorites.

“Doesn’t matter if it’s a cheap fabric. You were conned if you think that is Caraceni work.”

What? No. Napoleon is not going to stand for this. “This is a super 250s wool-silk blend from Loro Piana.”

“Whatever you say, Cowboy.”

Now Napoleon is truly insulted. He pushes away from the wall and stands straight, his head raised in a challenge and his arms open in an offer. “Would you like to check?”

Illya’s eyes fix on Napoleon with a glare, his teeth clenching in such a way that draws attention to the line of his jaw, and the muscles of his neck. The observation jolts Napoleon’s frustrations onto a track completely different from anger, and he never gets to steer his thoughts back in the right direction. Illya is crossing the room with powerful strides. It’s as though all the air in the room is being condensed between the two of them. Napoleon suddenly becomes sharply aware of how little space there is between him and the wall at his back.

Illya stops just inches away from Napoleon, who steps back despite himself. He looks up, and Illya’s eyes are dark, deliberating. Napoleon absently wonders if this is still about his suit, or if Illya knows exactly what he’s doing, looking at Napoleon like that.

Slowly, torturously, Illya raises his hands, cocking his head in consideration as he decides which part of Napoleon’s body he should settle on. Napoleon stands, rigid, he’s not allowed to back down now. Suspicion mingles with anticipation, yet he can only focus on Illya’s closeness, on that intolerable pocket of air still between them.

Illya’s large hands settle on Napoleon’s shoulders, and Napoleon suddenly feels small. Illya stares into Napoleon eyes, intent in a way that Napoleon can attribute a thousand different meanings to. Illya’s gaze does not waver as he gently, without the slightest hurry, runs his hands down Napoleon’s arms. Then, his hands move to Napoleon’s waist.

Napoleon can’t help the slight intake of breath, or the way his body shifts when Illya’s hands land just above his hip. There is a moment of understanding, and a smile grows on Napoleon's lips, threatening to become a grin.

“Like what you see, Peril?”

Illya’s eyes narrow, and his gaze drops. Napoleon follows, and he watches as Illya’s hands slide around and up over the fabric of the suit, along the lines of Napoleon’s abdomen. Illya’s hands are warm, and they rest heavily against Napoleon’s chest. Napoleon breathes deep, savouring the scent of Illya that rests on the air, pepper and sandalwood. When Napoleon looks up again and sees the desire in Illya’s dark eyes, he knows exactly what he wants. 

Napoleon’s lips pull into a smirk, charming, roguish, in that way he knows few can ever resist.

Then, Illya’s hands are curling into his hair, and Napoleon is being pulled forward into a scorching kiss. The taste of Illya has Napoleon’s insides curling with heat, and he pulls at the Russian, needy, grasping at him to come even closer. They hit the wall, and the full length of Illya’s body is pressed against Napoleon. He hears a moan. It might be his, or perhaps it’s Illya, but one of Illya’s hands is moving down his body and wrapping around his waist, and Napoleon stops caring about what is appropriate.

He’s trapped, with Illya’s weight bearing down on him, and all Napoleon can think is that this is still not enough. He hooks his fingers into the line of Illya’s pants, rolling his hips forward, and he can’t remember anything as thrilling as hearing the way Illya’s breath hitches at the friction. Illya pulls away an inch, pauses, then kisses Napoleon again, hard.

The next thing Napoleon knows, Illya is gone.

His arms are empty, and Napoleon blinks, his breathing still uneven, confused at the loss. Illya is backing away, his hair a mess, his clothes disheveled and his lips still red from Napoleon’s demands. 

In one hand, Illya holds Napoleon’s kit of lockpicks.

Napoleon stands, frozen, gaping in disbelief. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Illya’s lips jerk back in a grin. His pupils are still blown wide, and his breathing is only just starting to recover. “Your suit, is not bad,” he says, undoing the clasps of the case and withdrawing the picks he needs. Then, he’s turning toward the door and reaching for the lock.

Napoleon, speechless, only manages to glare at the wall, unable to reconcile the fact of what he had just fallen for. It is the oldest trick in the book, one Napoleon himself has used many times with great efficacy. It should never have worked. Napoleon never thought Illya had it in him, or perhaps he underestimated just how cunning Illya can be.

Seconds later, the door unlocks with an audible click, and Napoleon’s glare returns to Illya.

Illya is already opening the door, and as he steps out, he turns toward Napoleon. There is still a small grin on his lips, and a spark in his eye that has lust stirring in Napoleon all over again.

Napoleon’s kit flies across the room, and he reaches out to catch it.

“I am happy to continue,” Illya says, “But not in this room. This room is for cooling down, it is not good for what will happen.”

Napoleon, who is indignantly inspecting the condition of his belongings, stills. His disappointment and frustration becomes fuel for a very different fire.

He doesn’t quite run when he follows Illya toward freedom, but it’s a close thing.

 


End file.
